Berserker
by TheGreatOz14
Summary: He was a monster. He already knew that. Couldn't people come up with original names?
1. Decisions

Berserker

Decisions

He traced his fingers down the generous curve of her hips, feeling the skin swell and pop with the tiny explosions he created. Such a glorious feeling.

She struggled against him, pushing with her graceful little hands. He'd blow those off later. She made a gurgling sound; good thing he had already blown her jaw off, or else she'd be making a real racket. Now it was something between a whistle and a whine.

Red eyes pleaded up at him, and he granted what she wanted. It was what he was after, anyway.

He clapped his hands together and brought them down hard on her abdomen, and then threw her to her feet. She stumbled out into the street, half alive, fully a bomb.

Yes, just how he loved his women.

He watched with a predatory smirk as she shuddered and exploded.

"Ahhh…such music."

He never understood the others and their morals. Why were they State Alchemists anyway, if they didn't enjoy the kill? It was the only reason he had joined, wasn't it, so he could do it legally. And, boy, was it wonderful.

"Sir!"

Kimblee turned to the young solider hurriedly making his way over to him through the rubble. He toyed briefly with the idea of turning this one into a lovely little projectile, but decided against it.

For now-After all, he might have something fun to tell.

The solider saluted breathless and pink-faced.

"Sir, I have a message from the base"

Kimblee nodded absent mindedly, wondering if it would be more practical to blow off the arms first or the legs. Decisions, decisions.

"You are wanted by the Iron Blood Alchemist. He has asked that you reported to him immediately."

No, one arm first (easier to grab), THAN legs. Disable, then have fun. Perhaps blow the kneecaps to bits, or start at the ankles and go piece by piece-

"Sir?"

The pink-faced solider looked at him curiously. Kimblee's palms burned.

"I will report to him immediately. Tell me…do you report directly to him, or are you just part of the regular infantry?"

"I am part of the regular Army sir-"

_Oh goody!_

"-But the Colonel has asked me to do a sweep of the area and report back to him once I was done."

_Damn. Just like ole' Basque too…must have known…_

Kimblee dismissed the solider and strode back to base camp. Just like the Colonel too, to send in a man Kimblee couldn't…_play_…with. Bastard; he ruined all his fun.

"So, Major? How was your mission?"

Kimblee threw a salute at the Colonel.

"Oh, fine, fine…sir."

Basque Grand sighed.

"I see you've removed your uniform…again."

"Too restrictive…and pompous."

Kimblee replied flippantly, eyeing with distaste the manner Basque kept his own uniform. Basque Grand was known for being inordinately proud of his uniform.

Kimblee shook his head and smirked.

"So, what did you want me for, Colonel?"

The Iron Blood glanced up with an annoyed look.

"I'll show you when the others get here." With that, Basque Grand waved him away, and Kimblee slouched over to a pile of crates, reclining on them. He instantly began to fiddle and fuss with his tattoos on his palms, inspect his fingernails, generally fidget and twitch. He could never, ever sit still for very long.

_That drove my grandmother nuts_, he thought with a twinge of annoyance. He glanced over at the colonel, feeling another pang of irritation. Why was he here? Why was he called away from the battlefield? Away from the only thing he loved? Was Basque Grand stupid? He was alone with the Crimson Alchemist! Bastard probably thought he was invincible. Kimblee stared hungrily at the back of the Colonel's head.

_Invincible my ass._

No, no, he had to behave himself. He wanted to find out what was so special. Besides, the Iron Blood let him have his fun-most of the time. Who knew who they would get in his place. Probably someone boring and rule abiding and-

"You called for me sir?"

Crystal Alchemist, Tim Marcoh, stepped through the door, carrying a small wooden case under his arm.

_Whaddya know. Speaking of dull…_

"Did you bring it?" Basque Grande inquired lazily, but Kimblee noted a strained note in his tone.

"Yes, but-"

"But what?"

At that moment, Major Roy Mustang stepped quietly into the room and took his place next to Marcoh.

_Flame Alchemist_

Kimblee eyes flicked over him. His powers were so close to his own and yet, did he utilize them? No.

_How boring. Why I am here again?_

"Sir, I cant let you have them."

Kimblee eye's snapped back to Marcoh.

_Have what?_

Basque Grand continued to flick over reports that he had been looking over before, not bothering to answer. Marcoh hesitated, waiting for the colonel to respond, but receiving none.

"I just can't sir; why I can't…"

Marcoh hesitated again.

Kimblee let out a soft sigh and went back to picking his nails.

"Why?!"

Marcoh began violently, still eliciting no response.

"Why? Because of their doctrines the Isballans have neither alchemists nor up to date weaponry. Want them to demonize us even more? Do you think that's a long term answer?"

Marcoh glared over the desk to his commander. But Basque Grand was not a man to be easily swayed. After a short pause, the colonel repeated-

"Did you bring the materials?"

Marcoh nodded unhappily.

"I did Colonel, but their still under research-and like I told you, we don't need them!"

The Colonel flicked his papers in annoyance, growing irritable.

"Have you not seen the reports? The resistance is growing!"

"That's because your excessive use of force is creating sympathizers! Its easier for the Isballans to recruit the other tribes!"

Kimblee laughed softly from his corner, startling the other two alchemists.

_What is he doing here?_ Mustang wondered, not believing that neither he nor Marcoh even noticed him.

"What're ya trying to say, that our fuhrer's great cause is unjust?"

He blew imaginary dust from his fingers and smiled at his outstretched hand, making sure to tilt it just enough to show the designs etched into is palm.

_See that, Major Flame? I don't need gloves_.

Basque Grand rustled his papers, returning the men's attention to himself.

"We've lost several thousand men-the civilian casualties are well beyond that. The whole country is unstable." He glanced meaningfully at Marcoh, the first time since the older man had entered the room "This isn't a humanitarian summit, this is war."

Marcoh drew back at Grand's words. Kimblee stood and moved to the end of the desk, watching the action with interest.

"Now turn them over, Crystal Alchemist"

Marcoh's shoulders slumped slightly, but made no move to relinquish the box and its mysterious contents.

"That's an order"

Marcoh sighed, and placed the box on Grand's desk with a soft clunk.

The box swung open, revealing red, viscous liquid in little vials. Kimblee gasped in surprised delight.

_Philosophers Stones! Real, live, honest stones! Imagine the fireworks…_

Kimblee could have kissed Marcoh at that moment, but he found he couldn't take his eyes off the stuff. The Colonel, stood, revealing his massive size, and took up one of the bottles in his hands. Kimblee felt an inexplicable surge of anticipation as the Iron Blood held the vial aloft.

"Dominance in a bottle, men, alchemic augmentation! Its my job to end this war quickly and with this" he bunched his free hand into a fist. "I can!"

Marcoh just bowed his head, wrapped up in whatever personal battle he had against the stones. Kimblee didn't understand him. Mustang just stood there, staring blankly at the red stones. Kimblee didn't understand him either; then again, he didn't understand most people, because most people live by rules and moral codes. Not him, no.

He didn't like being restricted.


	2. Firsts

AN: The story isn't meant to go in chronological order-it's more of a character study. I thought Kimblee was a real bastard, and I decided I wanted to flesh him out a bit

Firsts

Restrictive was the law of his hometown, that nameless little border town in the outskirts of civilization. Kimblee thought it was best forgotten about. He told people he grew up in Central anyway. But he couldn't help but feel like they knew his lie, like they could hear the country accent in his controlled speech.

But he had made sure that he had erased that part of him too.

Sometimes he remembered it; the stench of farm life, where peoples lives were scripted out for them from birth. He was supposed to be a blacksmith, he was supposed to marry the tanner's daughter (what was her name anyway?), and he was supposed to have some god-awful amount of children. That just was the way of things.

But it didn't mean he had to like it.

Kimblee always smiled when he remembered the first alchemy book that had fallen into his possession. Some traveling showman had stopped in the village to show off his (what Kimblee now saw as pathetic) alchemy skills-like creating cheap jewelry from clay. The villagers loved it, ate it up, and threw hard earned pennies at him while others sniffed in derision and called him a "bad sort." Kimblee was 12, or 11, he couldn't remember. He went to every show, and saw every exchange, every cheap trick at least 30 times. Later, when the man went drinking at the local pub, Kimblee broke into his wagon and stole one of the man's books. It was just a basic primer, dogged eared and stained, but at the time, it was akin to the bible in young Zolf's eyes.

He began to draw the symbols during his classes, he thought about the laws of exchange when his father explained the proper way to forge a horseshoe. When his overbearing grandmother found the sheets of paper filed with alchemic symbols, promptly banning her grandson from having paper outside of school work ("No grandson of mine is going to be a sideshow freak!") he began to draw on his arms. In doing so, he found it was easier to perform alchemy quickly.

His first bomb was when he blew up some mice that had been caught in the rat trap. They popped like popcorn, and he decided he like the sound.

He moved on to larger creatures quickly. When he was 13 he blew up farmer Gutten's goat. When he was 15, he pretended he had no idea where all of the cows were disappearing too, or what that strange sound was in the back orchid late at night. Zolf Kimblee would have a good laugh at them all later on, as he painted the symbols necessary for explosions onto his hands.

_Clap, slap, kaboom_.

Later, using his father's tools, he branded his palms with the symbols. He told his grandmother he had burned his hands making farm tools.

When he was 17, people began to whisper about him and Maria-or was it Marsha? Kimblee went through the motions of 'love', dancing with her at festivals, holding her hand, kissing her in the cornfields like every other teenager in the town did with their sweetheart. They were both each other's firsts, and, according to the ways of the village, each other's only. It had already been written, in the eyes of her parents, his grandmother, his father-who had never remarried after Kimblee's mother's death, due to this unwritten code. Mary, or Mariel, or whatever her name was, had already begun sewing her wedding dress. Every time Zolf heard the whispers, he felt a panicked sensation in his gut, and his palms burned. He blew things up more and more frequently now, feeling calm only when he did so. But that too, was slowly being taken from him. He couldn't touch the farm animals now; people were starting to get suspicious. He had to catch wild game, and people still wondered aloud about the explosions that shook the woods from time to time.

Even now, he would blow up a mouse or two to ease tension, but back then, not even the bull he had stolen in desperation calmed him.

_I will not be trapped! I will not be contained!_

By summer of that year, people were waiting on his proposal. Johnny the baker's boy had proposed to Suzy, so wouldn't it be nice to have a double wedding? He remembered that night, pretty and warm, when he ran to he church to beg the priest to help him.

_Persuade the others!_ He had cried, _stop this!_

But the old fool just smiled, and said something about cold feet. Zolf couldn't really recall how it happened, but next thing he knew after that was the church looked like the inside of a war zone, and the priest was long gone.

_I've blown up a man._

Kimblee did remember that he had laughed-and for the first time in years, he felt good.

He left that night too, stealing money his father kept hidden in a lockbox in the shed, hitchhiking up to the train depot. Some old pervert that picked him up had tried to molest him, and Kimblee blew him up too. It felt just as good as the first time. The rest of the time went well enough too-he traveled for a bit, had the scars on his palms filled in with black ink, blowing up vagrants and drunks and whomever caught his fancy wherever he went, until he landed in Central and learned about the state alchemy test. He didn't care, until he learned why the state military had alchemists. With the tensions rising in Ishbal (It had being going on for about 6 years or so then), he was guaranteed his pleasure.

He passed the test his first time.

Once he wondered what happened to all those he had left in is wake, all of them back at home. He found he didn't care. He mentioned this to the muscular idiot, Armstrong, once, and was told he would someday.

Kimblee remembered that he had smiled.

"Well, there's a first time for everything."


	3. Furlough

A_/N: So, I did upload the continuation of the first chapter (titled "Love Stoned") but I wasn't all too happy with the way it turned out. So, I'm going to edit it, and for now, a short bit of Kimblee's "furlough", or when soldiers leave the barracks for a vacation of sorts. Sometimes they meet girls. hmmm..._

_Also, thanks to the two people that reviewed. And that one person who added this to a favorite stories list. You're half the reason I pulled "Love Stoned"-couldn't be putting out crap, now could I? Anyway, lets check in on everyones favorite psychopath and his new squeeze._

Furlough

He pressed against her and kissed her. She complied, soft and malleable. She actually trusted him? What a twat.

"I love you"

…_What?_

"Did you hear me?" her fingers dug into him, "I…I love you."

He stood there dumbly for a minute, and realized she was waiting for a response.

"Oh...uh, me too babe."

Her face wavered for a minute, before she broke into a watery smile.

"You're so funny with your words, so cute…"

Cute? Was she stupid?

Kimblee brought his hands together behind her back, making a soft clapping sound.

"Let me show you just how much I love ya."

He gripped her shoulders and rammed his mouth into hers. He snaked out his tongue and kissed in what he thought was a more or less passionate manner. Hey, he was only doing what he had seen in porno's, or what Mustang did when he thought no one was watching. He guessed it must have been working; she was writhing and mewling like a kitten.

Gross.

He tightened his grip, and she gasped. He wondered if it was from the kiss or the fact he was changing her chemical components. Either way, it was a pretty sound.

She started to shake, and Kimblee knew that it wasn't from romantic fervor. He leapt back, eager to see his fireworks.

She stumbled, making a weird "uh uh uh" sound. He hunkered down, watching her with a feral interest.

She didn't disappoint.

The explosion was enough to bring down some buildings in the area. Kimblee laughed raucously, practically hooting into the fractured peace of the desert.

"That, babe…"

He chuckled and brushed a stray hair from his eyes.

"…is how much I love ya.


	4. Love Stoned

Love Stoned

He loved the stone. He loved it more than the foolish girl back in the village, more than any prostitute he had bought, more than any man or woman that had ever been foolish enough to get close to him. It was his mother, his child, his lover. He felt it like a beating heart, how it rested on his collarbone when he slept, when it bounced against his neck in battle.

The Colonel offered the red stone necklace after he had dismissed the other two. Kimblee all but snatched it from his proffered hand.

"I want you to test it" Basque had said, "A man of your enthusiasm will do nicely."

Kimblee smiled genuinely, and had immediately gone out into the setting sun to find something to test his new toy on.

_Firework city_

It was a good day.

-------------------------------------------------

The next morning all the rest of the State Alchemists were handed out their stones, and asked to meet on the Parade grounds for what was called the "final push." Kimblee would have been on time (for once), but Grand sent him back to actually put on his uniform. He grumbled as he struggled with the layers and stiff fabric of an unused coat, before jogging out into the waxing light. He damn near ran into what he thought was a wall.

"Aigh! Dammit!"

"Oh! You're late too? Let us walk together." Alexander Armstrong grinned down at the smaller man. Kimblee blinked.

_Are those…sparkles?_

"You know, usually I'm on time. Having an innate sense of timing has been a family tradition. Why I remember…"

Zolf rolled his eyes and fell a step behind, staring up at the towering hulk of muscle that was Armstrong.

_Incredible._

What a great bomb he'd make. Kimblee wouldn't dick around making it either-clap, slap, kaBOOM. He repressed a giggle. He wondered if Armstrong would claim that being great bomb material was passed down his family for generations. _Probably._ That idiot would claim taking a shit was a great skill passed down from generation to generation.

"…So of course, I now avoid pineapples."

"What?"

Armstrong turned and smiled "You know-from the kumquat vendor?"

_Oh, yeah. He had been talking_. _About…pineapples?_ Kimblee blinked rapidly for the second time that day.

"Yeah, yeah sure."

He wouldn't say he scurried away from Armstrong, but rather he walked very fast. He stood in line next some other Alchemist, he couldn't remember who it was nor did he really give a damn. He just wanted to go. He could feel the cool weight of the stone resting on his breast, so near to his heart he could almost feel it beating in sync. It excited him, made his palms ache, made him itch in anticipation. No, not itch.

_Burn._

The instructions Basque was barking at them were simple: seek, disarm, destroy.

_Pfft. _

"I want it quick, I want it clean!" Basque hollered, "I want those fools to know what and who they are dealing with! Destroy them, body and soul! They have taken too many lives to be given mercy!"

Kimblee felt like his heart was about to leap from his chest. The red stone thrummed, and a giggle, rose in his throat. This could possibly, no, _definitely_ be the best day ever. He hazarded a glance around. Armstrong was stone-faced, Marcoh was glaring at the ground, and Mustang looked like he was about to vomit. He struggled to hold down an explosive sigh.

_Bastards better not chicken out._

A grin curved its way across his angular face.

_Because I won't._

_::6 hours later::_

Crystal Alchemist Tim Marcoh fell to his knees in the ruins of a civilization. The smell of copper was thick, as was the stench of decay. Ishbal was dying.

_It's all my fault._

_Mine._

Marcoh took a deep breath in attempt to calm his nerves, and promptly gagged on the dust. Another explosion ripped through the air, followed by a raucous laughter that chilled his blood.

_That damn bastard…_

Marcoh squeezed his eyes shut. He had decided-tonight he would leave.

----------------------------------------------------

The setting sun found the army back at the parade ground. The Iron Blood was grinning triumphantly, Kimblee was panting slightly, put out he was called back from the field.

"Congratulations, men. The Ishballans are in retreat."

A cheer went up through the men, Basque frowned slightly when he noticed a few of the alchemists weren't cheering. The frowned deepened when he realized Kimblee had conveniently misplaced his uniform, yet again. Grand fought the urge to rub his temples and instead concentrated on the task at hand

"But it isn't over yet." Grand said gruffly. Mustang looked up sharply, Armstrong looked away, and Kimblee cocked his head.

_I'm all ears, champ._

"I don't know where those fools think they are running, but know that there is _no escape!" _the last two words were punctuated with the slap of his fist against the other.

" Hunt them down. Disarm and restrain any that resist, take the rest into custody. You will pair into teams of two and do sweeps of the desert, each taking a different direction."

He glared around.

"Dismissed."

Kimblee practically bounced off into the desert. Mustang felt bile rise up in his chest and decided to let Armstrong patrol with the mad bomber. He turned only to find Basque Grand looming over him.

"Not you, Flame Alchemist. I have a special job for you."

Grand beckoned him to follow.

"I assume you know about those two doctors, yes?"

-------------------------------------------------------------

The whole camp was in uproar. Armstrong and Kimblee, two state alchemists, had gotten into a fight.

It had started when they both went into a deserted part of the city, on one of those general sweeps Colonel Grand had ordered. They had happened across a group of children and an elderly man. Armstrong attempted to take them into custody, but Kimblee was too quick.

"Their lives aren't worth shit! No ones is worth shit! Why do you care!?"

Armstrong broke Kimblees jaw that day, but all the Crimson Alchemist did was laugh.

An order followed quickly from Central that alchemists be solitary in the rest of the sweeps, and a private yet urgent note went out to Colonel Grand to either control the Crimson Alchemist or remove him. Basque Grand snorted and threw the letter onto his desk.

"How do you control a mad dog?"


	5. Madman Running

So, Like the first chapter, I used dialogue from the actual scene. Its the last part, in case anybody cared. Anywho-here ya go!

* * *

**Madman Running**

The Alchemists ripped apart the city he had helped to build. Those affronts to God Almighty had, in one fell swoop, ripped apart all he held dear. The old man just stared at the carnage around him, huddled in the corner of what used to be his home. The golden-eyed one advanced on him, its lips pulled back in what it thought was a smile.

"You can start screaming now."

But the old man stood shakily and held his ground. This alchemist, this boldfaced insult to the Almighty, had killed his whole family. He would not give that _thing_ satisfaction. The old man drew himself up as the monstrosity loomed over him, leering. He spoke, softly, but the golden-eyed one remembered his words for the rest of his life.

"You have a rotten soul."

For a moment, Zolf paused. But only a moment. He clapped his hands together.

"Too bad I don't believe in God, old man."

* * *

They had been chasing him for days. Basque Grand brushed imaginary dust from his uniform, his motions betraying his irritated mood. After the first solitary sweep, Kimblee failed to report. At first, Grand ignored this gross disobedience. Kimblee's schedule, like his uniform, was often mussed. He had failed to report before. But then he failed to show for the debriefing. The Crimson Alchemist never failed to attend a debriefing; it was where he was told to blow things up. Isn't that what he likes?

Then came the reports of bodies found, unrecognizable. "Like they was blown to pieces, sir." A nervous private informed him. So they tracked the bomb happy fool through the desert. One team got close, but the follow up team found them. Not them specifically, but what remained of them. The only recognizable thing was the uniform. Even blown up, Grand could recognize it. There was a betting pool at base camp on whether Basque was going after Kimblee for blowing up people or messing up uniforms. Most bet the latter.

Basque Grand forced himself not to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh (a military man never shows weakness!). He had personally received an order from the furhur to capture Kimblee-at any cost. Now he was tramping through the desert after a bomb happy ghost-a dangerous one, even without the incomplete philosophers stone.

"Sir! Another body! One of our men!"

_Case in point_

"His uniform sir." The private held up a piece of tattered cloth. Basque grimaced slightly. This mad idiot was giving him indigestion.

* * *

"Hey kiddies! How 'bout a rhyme!"

The orphaned Ishballans stared up at him in terror. Kimblee grinned and grabbed one of the old women they were with.

"There once was an old bat who swallowed a rock!"

Kimblee popped a rock he had been carrying and popped it in her mouth, and shook her until she swallowed it.

"I dunno why she swallowed a rock, she was dumb bitch who was gonna-"

His words were cut off but the woman's stomach exploding outward.

_Cool. I always forget about rock bombs._

The orphans started screaming, crying, running, desperate to get away from him. Some were yelling nasty things to him.

_Ungrateful brats_

He watched them run. He yawned and decided not to pursue. He was more interested in the adults anyway. More noise. Better insults then "you're a mean poopy face."

He considered that the weirdest thing anyone has ever said in the face of death.

Ever.

* * *

A young Ishballan man struggled to keep his weakend brother walking, let alone keep the designs covering his body under the cloak. If the others saw, they would be shunned. It was the last thing he needed. His brother stumbled, and seemed to stop using his left leg. The younger sibling grunted as he shifted to keep them both standing.

_I hate him_.

The man bit his lip in shame.

_He ruined our life._

No. He wouldn't cry here. Not now. Not when the explosions kept getting-

An explosion nearly knocked him off his feet. He whipped around, squinting into the sandstorm that resulted from the bomb. A figure swirled into view, a long ponytail whipped in the desert wind. The alchemist looked up, a predatory grin gracing his features.

"You have to ask yourself, how does one state alchemist get all the fun jobs in this war?"

"Can't you see that we've given up?"

An old man grabbed the lanky alchemist by his shoulders and begged for mercy. He was shown none. Something cold dropped down into the mans stomach as the alchemist almost loving grabbed the old mans wrist.

"No!"

A blast blinded him, and a hand snake out and grab his face.

_Oh god. Am I to die like that too?_

"All you guys just need to relax. You're all going to die someday-it might as well be at the hands of a specialist!"

The alchemist tightened his grip on the man face. He groaned in pain, barely registering the alchemists words.

"Why don't we go piece by piece?"

_No, please, no. I don't want to die like this!_

The alchemist lightly tapped the mans forehead, and the man felt his skin strech and explode into pain. He screamed and clawed at his face. Kimblee decided to test his theory of blowing arms or legs off. He decided to try arms.

The man screamed even louder, and Kimblee was starting to get annoyed. Why do they always scream like that? It was obnoxious!

"What shall we take off next?"

The man barely heard him, barely felt his brother throw his weight over him. He never heard the words exchanged, nor the alchemists own people attack him.

He knew nothing til he awoke with his brothers cursed arm, and a new mission.

The golden eyed ones face was ever present in that goal.


End file.
